


catalogued

by insistentbass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has an idea.  Sherlock has an idea and it involves John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	catalogued

John really isn’t as surprised as he should be, the first time Sherlock asks him to take off his shirt.

To give himself credit though, he _has_ just been beaten up quite spectacularly by two Guy Ritchie movie-type thugs, so the shock part of his brain is pretty much worn out. A couple of roadside stitches and a once over from the paramedics later, John finds himself sprawled out Sherlock-style on the sofa, with a banging headache and his body feeling like it’s just been cheese rolled down a very large hill.

As if things couldn’t be worse, Sherlock is pacing. John knows from experience that this can mean a number of things - interesting case, bored as hell, _John I accidentally blew up something incredibly important_ \- but there’s no mistaking this particular combination of bouncy footfalls and steepled fingers, and it’s not a good one.

Sherlock has an idea.  Sherlock has an idea and _it_ _involves John_.

His own powers of deduction really _are_ improving - that plus the fact that mid-frantic-pacing, Sherlock keeps staring at him, with eyes that are clearly dazed with curiosity and burning with the beginnings of what John’s sure is an evil plan.

“Sherlock, can you stop with the whole,” John gestures his arm round frantically, the other slung over his face, and instantly regrets it as his shoulder bursts with pain where Thug Number One had inconsiderately stamped on it.

Apparently going with blatantly ignoring him, Sherlock steps on and over the coffee table, knocking several papers off as he goes, and comes to stand cross-armed in front of John’s assaulted body.

“Hm. You’ll need to take your shirt off.”

Sherlock uses the same placidly demanding voice he usually reserves for crime scenes, and John almost complies without thinking; actually goes so far as to lift up the hem of his sweat-stained t-shirt before checking himself.

“Right - so _how_ hard did that guy hit me? I swear you just asked me to take my shirt off"

“Stop being so prude, John. _Strip_.”

“You know, it’s lines like those that cost me girlfriends, Sherlock.”

John removes the arm that had been shielding him from the dull throbbing of reality, just in time to see Sherlock disappear into his bedroom, from which comes a series of noises that sound remarkably like destruction.

Wincing, John pushes himself up a little and takes the opportunity to inspect his own chest for damage. It’s pretty horrific, despite the pain not being the worst he’s ever had - the slightly tanned expanse of his stomach is littered with bruises, some beginning to yellow and the worst ones still deepening purple with ruptured capillaries. John delicately tests his skin where there’s a suspicious outline of a boot below his ribs, his face contorting at the touch.

Seconds later, Sherlock glides back into the room clutching a small digital camera above his head in triumph. John watches with trepidation and an increasing hatred for the world at large, as Sherlock removes his jacket, toes off his shoes and rolls his sleeves up. In some weak attempt to remove himself from the situation, John shrinks back into the sofa as much as his broken body will allow, smooths his shirt back down and braces himself for whatever Sherlock is surely about to inflict upon him.

Turns out, for once, that John doesn’t have to worry about Sherlock’s crazy brain explosions resulting in chaos or near death. Instead, he watches with tensed _everything_ as Sherlock kneels on the floor next to him, places the camera down and begins to slowly lift his shirt.

John doesn’t protest, he tells himself, because Sherlock is being so damn _careful_. That, in itself, is rare enough to allow him some leeway in his usual outbursts of _What the hell, Sherlock?,_ whenever the man does something socially abnormal.

With each revealed inch of John’s battered chest, Sherlock seems to mentally address each wound; discerning cause and ferocity of the blow, the angle of the boot, how many knuckles Thug Number Two had cracked upon impact with John’s pectoral muscles. As with anything Sherlock related, John finds it quite fascinating to watch the information bloom and grow before the man’s eyes, despite the data being directly related to John’s own skin, his own tendons, his own beautifully massacred flesh.

Sherlock reaches his collar and John lifts his arms up instinctively, hisses at the pain, but allows his bunched up shirt to be pulled over his head. There’s a moment where John actually thinks about reaching for his belt, too, but then reminds himself he’s being _experimented_ on, for Christ’s sake.

“Sherlock, what actually _are_ you about to do?” He asks, mostly out of necessity.

“Catalogue” Sherlock replies, reaching for the camera tucked between his knee and the sofa.

Catalogue - a catalogue of _what_ , exactly? John wants to ask but also _really_ does not; imagines Sherlock standing before a huge pin board of John Watson’s Life, detailing height and fluctuating weight, how long it takes him to get from ASDA to Baker Street, how many cups of tea he consumes in one day, what flavour toothpaste he prefers and the number of press ups he forces out each morning -

“A catalogue of _wounds_ , John. Don’t flatter yourself.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, adjusting the settings on the camera for optimum bruise recording.

John doesn’t reply, (is actually a tad disappointed), curses the day he lost his own sense of self-preservation, and shifts to get comfortable on the sofa, ready for onslaught.

“Now hold still and try not to breathe too much, you’ll ruin the focus.”

Flexing his jaw, John swallows his retort because he’s in no state for a round of ‘who can be the biggest dick’ with Sherlock Holmes, and frankly (if he’s completely honest) it’s quite nice to hold all of the man’s attention for once. Even if it _is_ because of his impressive range of abrasions, rather than his winning personality.

Everything goes swimmingly for about five seconds - the photographer extraordinaire clicks the camera a few times, shifts himself around to get better angles, and somehow manages to dwarf John even though he’s on his knees - _then_ , Sherlock touches him.

Except it’s not like a _real_ touch, at least not the ones he’s used to; not a grab of the elbow (Come along, John), or a soft touch to his shoulder (Stop caring), or even a press to the small of his back (Lets go home, _now_ ). This touch is more like feathers, more like a whisper of wind across John’s skin that he truly wants to get away from as soon as possible.

“Sherlock, I’m not really-” He begins, but is steadied by the flat of Sherlock’s palm on his bending knee as he attempts to push himself up.

“Nearly done” Sherlock mumbles, leans over that _little_ bit too close to the abdomen he’s studying with such interest, and John just about stops himself from jerking involuntarily towards the warmth of Sherlock’s breath against his nerves.

He really _does_ try to think about anything else but the pair of eyes taking in his every pore and every sparse blonde chest hair, can feel his muscles tensing for no other reason than to look his best under Sherlock’s scrutinising gaze - and _that_  says something, really, doesn’t it?

“You have a remarkable range of muscle density.” Sherlock comments, and John doesn’t know how the fuck he’s supposed to respond to that one.

“Um, cheers” John sighs, squeezes his eyes shut because now the git has taken to trickling his fingers over each and every bruise, and what’s more - John _knows_ that no data can be gathered from the touch of a damage that’s very much _below_ the skin. So Sherlock’s either teasing him into an embarrassed stupor, or he actually finds his chest to be the most interesting thing since bloodied corpses. John doesn’t know which answer he prefers.

To lie back and think of England would be the optimum thing to do right now, but John’s body has completely different ideas, and _come on_ \- he hasn’t had a girlfriend for months thanks to awkward science man, so can he really blame himself for delicately arching into Sherlock’s abuse? He does have stupidly languid fingers, a lucid touch, and life's _really_ not fair at all.

John inhales deep, and Sherlock takes this as an excuse to press harder, right onto the raised mound of a particularly nasty bruise. John groans, can’t really help himself because the pain is pretty mean, shudders right through him from where the pads of Sherlock’s fingers assault his skin.

And he's not pushing him off, isn’t stopping him; in fact, John’s cock seems to be hardwired to the pressure of Sherlock on his skin, his thumbprints leaving marks on John’s sparkling arousal and he really, really is not liking this.

When Sherlock flicks his eyes momentarily in the direction of John’s treachery and then _smirks_ , he decides he’s had enough, shakes his head in protest and begins to push himself up. Sherlock continues to watch him like he _knows something_ , and John hates him a little, just there.

“Right I’m done now, thanks, get off.”

John practically shoves Sherlock away, despite the sudden bite of pain in his limbs as he does so, wobbles into standing and tries to look as defiant and pissed off as possible. Sherlock huffs, regards him with such irritation that John has the urge to throw himself right at him.

“Fine, I’ll have to monitor the progress of your bruises though-“

“You’ll have to do bloody _nothing_ , actually Sherlock. You can bugger off if you think I’m letting you near me with that camera again.”

With that, John does his best stalking off in a mood exit, swearing profusely as he goes - at Sherlock, the world, his relentless erection and his own pure bad luck.

 

//

 

Of course, it isn’t as simple as telling Sherlock no - John _does_ live with a real life crazy person - and he finds himself being catalogued nearly every day, sometimes without even knowing it.

There are several incidents in the shower, where John peels his clothes off slowly and cautiously, only to be frightened to death by the reflection of a hidden Sherlock behind the door. After a bunch of swearing and the throwing of shampoo bottles, Sherlock leaves him alone for a whole two days. Then, like some unwanted and persistent disease, Sherlock is back; in the bathroom, in the morning when John’s wearing nothing but a robe and his legs, in the middle of the night when he sneaks downstairs in his boxers only to be confronted by a shadowed vampiric detective armed with a flash, and the most disturbing of all - waking up to a Sherlock that clearly hasn’t slept for a few days, and who thinks it’s fine and dandy to show John photographs of himself half-nude and _asleep_.

It gets to the point where John’s even started cataloguing himself - _footprint bruise is a centimetre larger, hip bruises fading_ \- and he wonders where along the line his life became centred around the eccentric obsessions of Sherlock Holmes.

Weeks later, when the skies are whitewashed with the precipice of a thunderstorm, the tables turn and Sherlock - ever attracting danger - manages to fall down a flight of stairs in a disused office building.

John _hears_ rather than sees him fall, being several steps ahead and for once leading the whole chase. Not a seconds thought keeps him from turning back to Sherlock; not the echoing sounds of the criminal’s footsteps quickly fading away, or the burning adrenalin that kicks through his veins, shouting _run_.

Mere seconds later and he’s at Sherlock’s sprawled out side, deciding to skip the pulse check because the man’s already sitting up and criticising the floor space several stairs up that magically attacked him.

“What happened?” John asks, because Sherlock doesn’t just _fall_ anywhere.

“I got distracted” The crumpled man mumbles, through tight lips and a wrinkled nose.

It takes a moment for John to figure out just what on earth could distract the mighty detective from chasing a criminal, then it hits him - _muscles, recovery, acceleration under injury_ \- and he can’t help but laugh.

“Are you serious - Sherlock, that’s - that is _really_ ridiculous”

Sherlock has the audacity to raise his chin, begins to descend the rest of the stairs with a little more caution, and an almost not there limp.

“I need to correlate your recovery speeds. For the catalogue.”

John huffs again in complete disbelief, shakes his head and watches the man try and take each stair as if he’s stepping on cloud. He _probably_ should give some kind of doctorly advice here, but Sherlock’s been an absolute prick the past few days and John can afford himself twenty minutes or so of watching him suffer before he begins to feel guilty.

“It’s important!” Sherlock proclaims, and John follows with the barest hint of  a smile on his lips.

 

//

 

It takes a grand total of a day and a half before Sherlock takes his own shirt off and hands John a camera - and _really_ , he’s surprised it’s taken so long.

“Do I really have to do this? Not sure if I’m comfortable taking photos of my flatmate’s - my _friend’s_ \- injuries, to be honest.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, says - “Sentiment, really?” - and suddenly John loses all sense of discomfort, tugs the man by the elbow to the sofa with slightly more force than necessary.  

He even manages to tap his foot impatiently as Sherlock sprawls himself out across the sofa, rearranges a cushion behind his head, then decides to lob it across the room instead. John attempts to convince himself that Sherlock isn’t really much to look at - except, that’s a complete _lie_ , and (even though he’s been heterosexual for his whole life) John can imagine why someone could be attracted to him, is suddenly disappointed by his own physique in comparison, and intrigued to the point of wanting to put his _mouth_ against Sherlock’s ribs.

Violently shaking that particular thought away, John settles on the floor and folds his legs beneath him, realises with a sigh that he comes up a bit short, and so sits up on his knees instead.

Without a word, (mostly because John doesn’t trust himself to say anything), he begins to snap away; tries different angles, brings the lens over the various scrapes and the few bruises decorating Sherlock’s arms and chest.

“You need to go closer, John. Change the setting to macro and focus in,” Sherlock says, laced with _tedious_ , and snatches the camera off John, because how the hell does _he_ know what sodding macro is? “There.”

John rolls his lips, exhales and shuffles impossibly closer until his knees hit the sofa and he can feel the hairs on his arms brushing delicately against Sherlock’s skin.

“So,” He begins, in an attempt to regain normality. “Given up on me then, now that I’m all healed?”

“You’re not all healed, you still avoid contact to your left ribs” Sherlock hisses through his teeth, as John accidentally lets the camera dig into a bruise on his chest.

“Sorry, sorry. Well, you haven’t been photographing me that often anymore” He moves the camera further across the expanse of unfairly laid out skin before him, zooms in on a scrape leading to Sherlock’s partially concealed hip bone.

“Disappointed?”

John blinks at the raised eyebrow aimed his way, is caught by the not so subtle accusation in Sherlock’s eyes, and then decides to give him a taste of his own medicine.

“No, just saying” A breath, and then John spreads his digits across Sherlock’s abdomen, splays them wide and marvels at the contrast; sand on water.

Sherlock hisses again, but this time it’s sharp through his nostrils and John can’t help but play to it; draws his fingers together and lightly drags his knuckles across the concaves of Sherlock’s ribs, the bones that dip and rise with each breath, moves to smooth his thumb over a patch of yellow-blue patterning the sinews of his shoulder.

“ _John_ ”

And he doesn’t know if that’s stop, or please carry on - so instead John takes the camera again and frames his own hand against Sherlock’s skin in the shot, swallows as he presses the shutter. The muscle in Sherlock’s shoulder tenses beneath his touch as the camera works, his eyes dart sporadically and John can’t discern between the maelstrom of high intensity thoughts running through Sherlock's head and his own confused breaths.

“Of course you’re interesting,”

Sherlock takes the camera from John’s pliant hands and drops it onto the floor; circles his wrist and guides his hand from shoulder to pectoral, from rib to the valley of his stomach. Caught, John finds his own body moving to shadow Sherlock’s, his knees coming to rest precariously on the very edge of the sofa and he _can’t_ \- John can’t process anything but Sherlock’s skin beneath his hand, realises that _it is_ possible to feel a bruise when it’s burning its way through your very bones.

There’s a pause of nothingness; where Sherlock’s pupils dilate as he parts his lips to speak, and John _shivers_.

“That’s the problem.”

  


  



End file.
